Written by Todd Megee with assistance from AI. The writing and organization were aided by artificial intelligence, but the events, conversations, memories, observations, and interpretations described are based on true experiences as I remember them.
Lately, I have been thinking about reality as a form of holographic gravitational lensing.
Not as a machine that predicts the future, but as a process through which old light arrives carrying new meaning.
A recent sequence of events has left me wondering whether some experiences are less about what happens and more about when we finally see them.
What makes the sequence even stranger to me is that it all unfolded on the birthday of Donald Trump—a figure I sometimes jokingly refer to as the “Orange Singularity.” Whether that timing is meaningful or merely coincidental, I cannot ignore how tightly it seems woven into my memory of the day.
The sequence began while I was picking up medication for my mother.
The pharmacist helping me was named Lamb.
At first, I simply smiled at the biblical connection. It seemed fitting given the themes that have been appearing in my life lately. Only afterward did I notice that both prescriptions contained the number 777.
Immediately after leaving the pharmacy, I ran into Todd.
Normally, conversations between Todd and Todd are a little awkward. There is something inherently strange about introducing yourself to someone who shares your name. This time, however, Todd was cheerful, relaxed, and easy to talk to.
During our conversation, I shared a story about a set of $20 bills I once had that contained 777s in its serial number in sequence. I talked about story of people hitting jackpots after validating the serialized 777 bills at the Golden Nugget.
At the time, it felt like an ordinary conversation.
Only later did it begin to feel connected to everything else.
Around that same period, I noticed a purple vehicle whose message centered around love. It was one of those seemingly insignificant moments that lingered in memory long after it should have disappeared.
Then another memory surfaced.
Not a recent one.
An old one.
As a teenager, I knew a man my age who lived about a mile from where I lived. During those years, I remembered seeing him riding a horse. The memory remained dormant for decades.
Recently, however, it returned with new symbolism attached to it.
In my mind, the image became associated with the Black Horseman—the rider carrying scales, representing measurement, value, scarcity, and the weighing of things.
What struck me was the contrast between the symbols.
The Black Horseman asks what is lacking.
The 777s ask what has already been provided.
One points toward scarcity.
The other points toward provision.
One measures.
The other reassures.
The tension between those two ideas seemed to mirror my own life.
Meanwhile, my Honda Insight sits damaged from a recent wreck.
For the past several months, rideshare driving had become a moving observation platform. Conversations, license plates, names, destinations, coincidences, and unexpected encounters flowed through my days with unusual density.
Then the accident happened.
The stream stopped.
The Insight was injured.
And I found myself searching for insight.
Even the events surrounding the accident carried symbols of their own.
Shortly before the wreck, while crossing a bridge, I noticed a gold Nissan Titan displaying the tag “KNIVES.”
After the wreck, while driving to work, I saw a vehicle with the tag “THEDON1.” It was a Toyota Sienna.
At that exact moment, I glanced at my radio and saw the artist name Sienna while a song played containing the lyric, “I Will Die on This Hill.”
That moment stayed with me.
Not because it proved anything.
But because it reflected exactly how I felt.
Whether these events are synchronicities, coincidences, psychological pattern recognition, or something else entirely, the symbolism feels internally consistent. The metaphors connect with a solidity that is difficult for me to ignore.
Perhaps none of these events mean exactly what I think they mean.
Perhaps they are simply fragments of light arriving from different moments in my life and appearing together through the lens of memory.
What I know is that the events have not changed.
The memories have not changed.
Only the observer has changed.
And sometimes revelation is not receiving new information.
Sometimes revelation is seeing old light through a different lens.
I also suspect this is only part of the story.
There are additional conversations, memories, connections, and events that seem to belong to the same pattern but have not yet revealed how they fit together. Whether they ultimately confirm, challenge, or completely reshape my understanding remains to be seen.
For now, I can only document what has been observed and follow the light as it arrives.
The lens is still moving.
The story is still unfolding.
And the final picture has not yet been revealed.
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